


Oh Baby You're so Vicious

by eyecandyianto



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Gratuitous song usage, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, More tags later for smut chapters, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, dissociating jaskier, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23494555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyecandyianto/pseuds/eyecandyianto
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 61





	1. Now I Know

_ “Damn it Jaskier!” _

The words kept repeating in his head as he trudged down the mountain, a lump in his throat that no matter how he tried he couldn’t shake.

_ “Why is it that whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shovelling it!?” _

His breath started to come faster, more ragged. Gasping from deep within his chest, he all but fell against the nearest tree.

_ “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.” _

It had been a few hours of walking since those words entered his head, and he simply couldn’t hold it in any longer. Not for a moment caring who was around to hear, he let the flood of emotions overtake him and the sobs he’d been holding back wracked through his chest. If asked, he wouldn’t be able to tell you how long he was like that, clutching his head in his hands and barely able to catch his breath between the tears, but as with all things it eventually passed.

When it did, Jaskier found that he had no real desire to move, he simply sat and stared ahead at the view. Not really taking it in, although objectively he could tell you it was pretty. He just sat, and stared. He knew it was getting dark, that it was getting cold, but it seemed like it was happening to someone else, that he was just watching. Outside himself; disconnected.

He wasn’t sure when he drifted off, but when he awoke the sun was just rising. That numbness that had settled into his soul the night before was still present, but not as strong.

He was at least more in control of his body than he was last night, and managed to stand up, dust himself off, and head in the direction of civilization while nibbling on some bread from his pack. His stomach couldn’t take much. He’d usually spend his time composing on the journey home with … Geralt. No, he thought, not going there, not yet. Jaskier feared that any attempt to play would just end the way last night had, with him unable to control the emotions that poured out of him. So he would wait, wait until he felt at least some measure of control, otherwise he was never getting off this cursed mountain.

There was a benefit to his lack of musical ability at the moment, he thought with a bitter bark of a laugh. If Geralt, or god forbid Yennefer, were anywhere nearby they would be alerted to his presence, which was the last thing he needed right now. Underneath the numbness he knew there was a bubbling geyser of rage, and if he saw either of their infuriating, gorgeous faces he would fucking snap. He just knew he would, probably do something incredibly stupid too, like attempt to hit them with his lute, which would either end up with him dead or hexed. So yeah, probably a good thing he didn’t feel like singing.

The journey down the mountain wasn’t as bad as he remembered the journey there being, thankfully lacking that stupid shortcut. He didn’t have to worry about getting down the mountain first, in fact he hoped he wasn’t, because speed and efficiency were usually the realm of he-who-he-will-not-think-about. So he meandered, took the path well-trodden. He checked his pack and he had more than enough supplies for the journey back to the nearest town, so there was really no sense in rushing and catching up with people he would rather didn’t exist right now.

Who was he kidding, Geralt probably wound up chasing after Yen and they were having angry make up sex wherever she felt like portaling them. His face turned into a sneer unconsciously.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Jaskier spat under his breath.

He didn’t want his mind to supply images of Yen and Geralt’s first rage filled tumble together, but it seemed he was helpless to stop it. He swore his brain liked actively tormenting him. A perfect play by play of what he wasn’t meant to see through that cracked manor window flitted before his eyes, making him all but blind to his surroundings.

Geralt’s gorgeous back, still clothed in that ridiculous leather jacket Yen made him. Geralt’s ass, just visible from where Yen had pushed his pants down. His arms, his jaw, his hair (gods, his hair).

Jaskier stopped dead in his tracks, closed his eyes, and took a steadying breath.

No, he would not think about his, no THE, Witcher’s hair, or his ass for god’s sake. Especially not in conjunction with Yennefer. He’d denied himself this long, no point in quitting now.

It took roughly 3 days to get back down the mountain, but Jaskier hardly noticed the time passing. When he finally made it into the nearest town, he couldn’t recall a moment of the last 3 days with any clarity, they all just blurred together. Blessedly he hadn’t run into any of the other potential Dragon slayers on his way down. He hadn’t lied to Geralt, he really had meant to get their sides of the story, but it just didn’t seem to matter once he walked away. Why should he care about making the Witcher the hero? All virtues associated with heroes seemed rather lacking in their last encounter.

A drink, that’s what he needed. Preferably a strong drink, no, many strong drinks.

Jaskier proceeded to get a room for the night (before he was too drunk to remember to purchase one), dump his lute and pack in the room, and set off on his quest to get absolutely, astonishingly pissed.

***

Well, his plan was working quite well, Jaskier thought.

He was indeed well and truly drunk.

The tavern beneath his rented room was as good a place to drink as any. Better, in fact, as he’d now learned that they had more than ale to offer. Apparently the locals liked schnapps. Wouldn’t have been his first choice but at this point anything strong would do.

Completely unbidden, from deep within his mind, lyrics started to form. God, his brain never shut up.

“Fuck’n fine ok.” Jaskier grumbled as he took out the paper and pencil he always kept within his doublet.

He didn’t want to think about his feelings right now, he didn’t want to compose, he just wanted to numb his brain and heart with copious amounts of alcohol, but he knew if he didn’t write down his thoughts immediately they’d haunt him the whole night and wouldn’t that just ruin his plans.

He knew he was mumbling what he was writing under his breath. He had enough clarity to realise he probably looked absolutely mad, tongue stuck out between his lips when he wasn’t muttering or hastily scrawling on his rumpled parchment.

Eventually the words stopped coming easily and, sighing heavily, Jaskier picked himself up on wobbly legs and slowly made his way up the stairs to his room, where he promptly passed out face first and fully dressed on top of the bed. And, well, if he wasn’t sober enough to hold back a few tears before blissful darkness overtook him, there was no one

there to know.

***

_ “Damn it Jaskier!” _

His own words kept repeating in his head as he trudged down the mountain, he grunted what Jaskier usually called his “furious grunt” without even thinking.

_ “Why is it that whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shovelling it!?” _

His shoulders started to shake, in a bid to make this feeling go away he did what he did best; he hit things. Whatever poor tree was the closest, until the bark had more than flaked off and his knuckles were bruised and broken under his gloves.

_ “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.” _

This, this was why he didn’t talk. Everything always came out wrong. It was true what he said to Yen, whenever she’s around he speaks more in five minutes than he has in weeks. And there’s a reason for that, because if he speaks, shit like this happens. Gods, how could he be so completely and utterly stupid?

Maybe if he caught up to Jaskier, and told him… what would he tell him?

That he shouldn’t have said that? That Jaskier was simply the easiest and nearest target?

That he was sorry?

No matter the words, they all sounded weak to his ears. Not enough, too late. In all honesty though he couldn’t think of a better plan. He wasn’t exactly experienced in the ways of contrition. He usually just waited until the other person started talking to him and pretended like it never happened. Either that or they simply never spoke again.

That thought set off an odd clench within his chest.

Maybe it was time to learn to use his words, because he didn’t want Jaskier and him to end that way. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t want them to end at all, but it was all he could think about.

The look on his face right before he walked away continued to swarm around Geralt’s mind as he set about walking down the mountain in earnest. They’d had their squabbles before, Geralt had been harsh and gruff more times than either of them could count, but this was the first time Geralt could remember Jaskier looking genuinely hurt because of something he said.

The crack about him being a “pie with no filling” had mostly been met with indignant spluttering, because deep down, Jaskier knew. He knew Geralt actually liked his singing. This though, this was different, and Geralt could feel it. He’d crossed a line.

With that thought in mind, Geralt picked up his pace down the mountain in earnest. It was a difficult trek back, even going the more traditional route back sans the death trap of the dwarven bridge. Jaskier would need help down the mountain.

Yes, that was why he was almost running. No other reason.

It was a few hours before he picked up Jaskier’s scent enough to follow his trail. Even Geralt couldn’t ignore the relief that flooded through him with the first breath of linseed oil and chamomile. The boot prints he knew were Jaskier’s gave him pause, they seemed to be meandering, all over the place. Was he injured?

Knots twisted in the witchers stomach. The mountain wasn’t exactly barren, that was proven on their journey up. He didn’t smell any blood, that was a good sign.

It was nearly dark by the time he caught up enough to Jaskier to be able to hear him, he had finally stopped moving for the night and was half a mile away in the woods, resting. Geralt quieted his step, he didn’t want to talk to his friend before he had had some time to think, so he wouldn’t make an ass of himself again. He just wanted to check that he wasn’t injured, that was all, and he would leave him be.

Even without artificially enhancing his abilities with potions, Geralt’s night vision was still leaps and bounds better than a humans. He could stay a safe distance away without being seen and still keenly observe his friend. Rather beneficial when one was hiding from the fallout their harsh words. He peered through the branches to get a better look, and…

Oh no.

This was not good. Fuck. _Fuck._

Jaskier was just sitting there, no fire, no food, just staring straight ahead as tears silently flowed down his face. The only parts of him that were moving were his hands as he raggedly picked at the skin around his nails until Geralt could smell blood. In between self-loathing thoughts of “This is all my fault”, “I’ve fucked up the one good thing in my life”, the practical part of Geralt’s brain shouted “He will die if you leave him here in this state, there’s no way he’s making it down the mountain in one piece”.

Practicality eventually beat down the turmoil swirling around Geralt’s brain, and he formulated a plan. He would wait until Jaskier was asleep and he would slip some food into his pack and make sure no harm came to him while he slept. He’d make sure he made it down the mountain safely, from a distance. He didn’t want to make the state of his friend any worse. In all honesty it was the cowards way out, but that’s what he usually was when it came to feelings and Jaskier, a coward.

It was a few hours before Jaskier eventually succumbed to sleep, curled up in a ball on his side next to a tree, shivering.

Geralt crept over as quietly as he could, fished the blanket from his pack out and draped it over the bard’s smaller form. Barely making a sound, Geralt added some of his rations to Jaskier’s smaller bag and made sure the food was within his eyeline, so he didn’t forget to eat upon waking.

The witcher went back to his quiet seclusion of the forest, close enough to protect the bard if anything bad was to happen, but far enough away as to never be noticed. He would meditate tonight instead of properly sleeping to make sure nothing happened to Jaskier.

***

That was how they continued down the mountain for the next few days, Geralt watching from the shadows while Jaskier acted like he was a marionette on strings and nothing more. Thankfully he had the wherewithal to eat and continue using the blanket Geralt had draped on him the first night. Every now and again while walking down the mountain Geralt would hear him muttering to himself, completely nonsensical to him, like he was having a conversation with someone the witcher couldn’t see.

The bard seemed to perk up slightly when the nearest town was in view, rousing from his waking slumber enough to secure a room at the inn and get extremely, thoroughly drunk.

Geralt was careful to stay out of sight of the bard, he quickly got his own room from the innkeeper and retired upstairs, but not before he bought a bottle the cheapest spirit they had on offer. Jaskier had the right idea, the witcher thought with a bitter huff of a laugh.

Despite downing nearly the entire bottle in a short period of time even for a witcher, sleep would not find Geralt. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, staring at the ceiling while thoughts of the bard filled his head. After what felt like hours, Geralt rolled onto his stomach and put the lumpy pillow over his head in a vain attempt to smother his thoughts. Geralt had no idea how he was going to fix this, but he wanted to.

He _needed_ to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier sets about picking up the pieces of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, finally had time to update! Hope it's good, we'll switch back to Geralt's perspective next chapter, and then there will be roughly 2 chapters after that, promise <3

The first coherent thought Jaskier had upon waking was something alongs the lines of “schnapps might not have been as amazing an idea as he had previously thought”.

“Ugh god, it was peach flavoured, why does my mouth taste like ass?”

A pause.

Ah… he was alone.

Usually Geralt would be rather snarky in response to an opening like that, and even though Jaskier’s head felt like it was full of bricks (gods he really was getting old, half a bottle gave him a hangover?) he’d have had fun trading quips with the witcher who Definitely Didn’t Have A Sense Of Humour.

That wouldn’t happen anymore.

Jaskier’s stomach turned for an entirely different reason than his hangover.

With a slightly less dramatic groan than what he would usually make, Jaskier dragged himself out of bed with the intent of freshening up.

Making his way over to the wash basin and mirror on somewhat steady legs, Jaskier took a dampened washcloth in hand and set about removing the layer of “gross” from his face.

He glanced up to his reflection in the mirror, and was unsurprised with what he saw.

Tired puffy eyes, beginnings of dark circles, and an all around sour expression. Wonderful.

It wasn’t that he was an incredibly vain man (alright he was a slightly vain man but still), it was just that his looks and his talents were his trade, and looking like he was one bad comment away from breaking his lute over someone’s head didn’t exactly bring in the coin, and he needed some coin at the moment. He hadn’t been exactly banking on Geralt slaying a dragon and taking it’s hoard or some other such nonsense, but the mountain wasn’t exactly bountiful with inns in want of a bard, so he was down supplies and none the richer for it.

Fuck, he did not feel like performing.

He’d paid for two nights in the inn upfront with the intention of locking himself in his room with a bottle of something and his notebook to keep himself company, but if he was setting off alone from here on out, he should at least make an attempt to get enough coin to make it to the next village in relative comfort.

Leaning heavily against the wash basin cabinet, Jaskier took a deep breath to calm his mind.

Ok, time to put on the face of “Jaskier! Beloved Bard”. No room here for puffy eyes and brooding.

Jaskier walked over to his pack and rummaged around until he felt the pouch he was searching for. Walking back over to the vanity, Jaskier set about making the world believe all was well. Unscrewing the lids from various tubs and jars, Jaskier applied some glamour cream under his eyes to make himself look well rested and put together.

He would not give anyone a reason to ask him what was wrong.

He couldn’t handle that question at the moment.

He pinched his cheeks and bit his lips to bring some colour to his face, and, looking at his reflection, even he almost believed he was fine.

A fresh pair of clothes and a dab of perfume and he was out the door and down the stairs, set on getting something into his stomach and a job booked for the night.

***

  
Breakfast was basic, some bread and cheese and weak ale. At least the bread was fresh.

The innkeeper seemed receptive to him performing in the evening, so really Jaskier’s goals for the day had been accomplished within the first few hours.

Shit.

What the hell was he supposed to do with the rest of the day? He needed to be busy. He needed to not think too hard.

Oh, maybe he should wander around the town and see if there was anything to keep him occupied, it wasn’t exactly Oxenfurt but it at least had a main strip of shops. He had a few things he could take to be mended, and he needed to restock on some basic supplies. Yes, good plan. Perfect distraction.

After heading back to his room to grab everything he needed for a stroll through town, Jaskier set off on his quest for distractions.

***

He was indeed right about this not being Oxenfurt. Fuck, it wasn’t even Crow’s Perch.

The brilliant and effective strategy of distraction via shopping was decidedly ineffective when there were precisely four shops in the town, and he had no particular need for a butcher at the moment so more like three.

If he were of a more violent nature, chopping something with a big meat cleaver might make him feel better, but alas, that was not his domain.

Butcher.

Butcher of Blaviken.

Getting punched in the gut by Geralt on the first day they met for mentioning that name.

Fuck, could his internal monologue quiet down about that bastard for two fucking minutes? Apparently not.

Ok, less thinking, more shopping. He had already taken his clothes to be laundered and mended so that was one out of three done. The other two options appeared to be a general goods store and a blacksmiths.

Well, it’s not like there’s anything better to do, Jaskier thought with a shrug. General goods first.

The store was small, but not run down, this village was certainly better off than some he had seen throughout Velen. The shopkeep was a girl in her early 20s by the looks of it, probably minding it for her family. Jaskier realises slowly throughout chatting with the girl that this would usually be where he’d try his hand at getting her back to his room.

An accompanying realisation is that that is a form of distraction he’s not interested in at the moment. Oh, she’s certainly lovely, and were this a week ago he’d jump at the chance to distract himself from a certain someone, but honestly he doesn’t feel like it would be an entertaining diversion at this point.

He feels like he’s grieving, and she deserves better.

He ended up buying a week's worth of rations. He doesn’t have the witcher’s hideously under seasoned stew to rely on anymore after all.

Next stop, blacksmith. Hopefully they have some nice jewellery to peruse.

Walking around the back to where he sees a plume of smoke and hears that particular clang of hammer on metal, It seems it’s slightly more of an “open” storefront than the previous shops.

“Hello there!” Jaskier calls over the ringing in a bid to get the blacksmith's attention.

“Hello, whatdya need?” The blacksmith said in a heavy accent.

“Would you happen to have any jewellery?”

“Aye, we have a few pieces, nothing as fancy as what you’re already wearing though.” He says, eyeing the various rings on Jaskier’s fingers.

“Oh that’s quite alright, I like a bit of variety.” Jaskier replies with as much smile as he can muster.

“Easy then, come on in.”

“In” was a generous term, when really the shop was more like a market stall.

The man opened a case with various trinkets and baubles, mostly rings and brooches, no fine chains. For a man that clearly specialised in weaponry there were some rather nice pieces. Glancing over the stock, a particular brooch caught his eye.

Set into a silver backing was a yellow stone, citrine he’d wager. Such a bright shade compared to the other cloudy stones and buffed bronze and tarnished silver that it instantly stood out.

It perfectly matched Geralt’s eyes.

Jaskier reached out gently and, just before touching the stone, he drew back.

Now, he thought, this was really too much. He would not be reduced to a lovesick sap that latches onto any fragment of a memory.

And like that, an idea formed.

“Excuse me sir, slight change of plans, would you happen to have any daggers?” Jaskier heard himself asking, without fully realising he was saying it.

“Oh definitely, one moment.”

A few seconds of rustling behind the counter, and the blacksmith set a wooden case on the counter.

This was clearly where his talents lay, the craftsmanship on the blades and scabbards was finer than any of the jewellery in the previous display. Well, that would benefit him, he might have to protect himself again, but he would damn well maintain his image.

One immediately caught his eye, a handle that shone faintly purple in the sun, twisted like a rope and with a jewel at the pommel. The blade came to a wicked point, but the most beautiful part was the scabbard. Delicate filigree swirled in the pattern of flowers and leaves. A chain was added, so it could be suspended on a belt or inside a doublet.

Yes, this would do nicely.

“If you wouldn’t mind, kind sir, I’ll take this one.”

The man gave him a curt nod and they set about haggling for a price.

Jaskier could see a look in his eyes as they talked, a look of curious confusion and wariness. He suspected that not many people came in to stare longingly at jewelry and settled on a weapon.

Fuck it, he didn’t have to explain himself. Whatever narrative this man painted of him in his head was not his concern.

With his new dagger safely in his doublet, Jaskier felt lighter.

Well logically he actually felt heavier, obviously, he had a big thing of metal clanging on his side; but he had an extra spring in his step. Retail therapy clearly had some benefits.

Unfortunately he still had several hours to kill before his promised set at the inn, and nothing to fill the time.

He had to fill the time. He had his moment to wallow with the schnapps last night, that was it.

Maybe if he repeated it enough he’d believe it...

He could see if anything he wrote down last night was usable enough to test on an audience tonight. Yeah, that could work.

Making his way back to his room, Jaskier set about deciphering his drunken scribblings to see if there was anything of any merit.

***

Surprisingly, the hours passed without much notice from the bard.

Even more surprising was that some of his ramblings were rather good, Not “perform them on their first draft” good, but there was definite potential. He would stick to his regular set, even though it pained him to sing songs of the one thing he was trying to ignore. No one would pay if he didn’t regale them with the tales of The White Wolf, so torture himself he must.

He would make it through, he always does. He was a good enough performer to get through this on instinct alone, let the words and the melodies take over and empty his mind in the comfort of such an act of repetition.

A knock on his door alerted him that it was time to entertain the masses.

He just hoped the blissful amnesia of performing would come easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I know it's been a while, hope that was at least half way decent! So basically I moved house and got deep into the Castlevania fandom lol (so if you're also into that expect a fic coming soon) but I'm back and I'm finishing this! Apologies for any typos, the life of a dyslexic writer is a cruel one


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